Clipped Wings
by KnoKnameKnown
Summary: Warren Worthingtons II & III do not exactly see eye to eye. But both of them are in danger when a new threat rises...
1. Chapter 1

**Firstly, the standard disclaimer: I don't own any of the main characters here, they're all property of the original creator and all rights etc go to them. Also, I have no money so suing me is kinda pointless.**

**Secondly: this is a half-sequel to **_**Enter X-Factor**_**, as it follows the events of that story but you don't need to have read it for this to make sense (I hope.) I hope you enjoy it!**

**Chapter One: "You **_**shall **_**go to the ball!"**

_The Worthington Hotel, New York_

Warren Worthington III was very surprised to hear the knock at his door. As the son of the hotel's owner, he of course had a suite provided gratis, but he had hardly ever used it unless absolutely necessary. He hated cashing in on the family name, and more specifically the name of his father, with whom he had a relationship the New York upper-crust politely referred to as 'tense.' He had no doubt they called it much stronger words behind closed doors, but he doubted any of them would know the reasons why. He was shaken from his musing when the door was knocked again, much more forcefully. Well, that ruled out hotel staff then. If they weren't answered, they would depart- the customer always being right, of course. Maybe it was that girl he had met- Candy something... North? No, Southern, that was it. He had been sure that he had given her one of his plentiful other addresses; she had been nice enough and very pretty but lacked the brains to match, and her attempts to ascertain his availability had been as subtle as the Juggernaut's rampages. He didn't want anything to do with that kind, thanks... he had more than enough to deal with.

"Warren? I know you're there!" The voice was muffled by the door but unmistakeably male. Warren quickly grabbed the long coat he wore to disguise his long wings and hurried over to the door. He threw it open to see a sight less welcome than a dozen Candy Southerns.

"Father," he said politely but with an icy chill to his voice. He then made to close the door but his father, also named Warren Worthington, stopped him.

"Can I just please talk to you?" His father asked. It would not do for a man of Worthington senior's pride and status to beg, but his tone of voice was the closest he would ever come. Despite himself, Warren was intrigued. What could make his father forget his pride enough to take a pleading tone like that, and with his own son at that? Of course, Warren did not let that show. He maintained the cold inscrutability he had had drilled into him by his father since a young age.

"Talk quickly," he suggested tersely. He allowed his father inside though. "As it's you, I guess I won't need this, will I?" He added, shrugging his coat off. His magnificent white wings flexed and he took a certain vindictive pleasure in his father's flinch. "I have to say, father, it feels much better when I don't have to wear that coat, when I don't have to hide who I really am, just for the sake of your good reputation."

"It's not just my reputation, you know, it's my legacy- and your future," Worthington countered. "If people knew what, what you were-"

"The word you're looking for is 'mutant,'" Warren said helpfully.

"Yes... that... well, our entire business would suffer. The world isn't ready for... mutants..."

"If you came here just to peddle that old line again you may as well leave before you waste more of both our time," Warren said.

"No, I actually came on behalf of your mother," Worthington said. "She knows that our relationship is... not exactly close-"

"How astute, maybe she should run Worthington Industries instead."

"-and she wants to try and rectify that situation," Worthington appeared mostly unfazed by his son's hostility, having got used to it over the years. "I've come to... ask you for something." It clearly pained him to have to plead with his own son but he forced the words through gritted teeth. He looked to see how the offer was taken but Warren merely shrugged. Worthington took that as a sign that his son would at least hear him out and continued with his proposal.

"Tonight, there's going to be a ball here in New York," he went on. "There'll be all sorts of people there, captains of industry, some politicians and so on, and I think it would be good if you would come too, just to try and get _your_-" he stressed the pronoun- "name back into the spotlight, for your own good. Your reputation as pariah is not going to do you any favours in the long term."

"I see," Warren said neutrally. Mentally, he was analysing the subtext to his father's proposal, and more specifically what had _not _been said. He knew his father well enough to know that wife's suggestion or not, he would not sacrifice his dignity like this unless there was something in it for him too. Reconciliation with his famously ostracised son would be a good bit of publicity, of course, but Warren doubted that that was it, or at least not all of it. He still had a lot to learn about subterfuge though, and knew his father would see through any attempt to probe his motives.

"Where and when is this event?" he said eventually. He saw his father smiling smugly and quickly added a disclaimer. "I'm not guaranteeing that I'll be there, and I definitely won't stay the whole time, but if I do decide to accept your suggestion, I'll need to know where and when. Maybe I could stage another public argument with you- it's been a while since the last one..."

His father paled, knowing Warren was serious about the threat, but gave him the details. Warren made a note of them and turned his back on his father.

"Don't let me detain you," he said. He sensed the older man was about to say something, but he thought better of it and Warren heard the door click closed. He waited until he was sure his father was gone then walked to his balcony, taking off his shirt as he did so, and then his other clothes. Underneath his suit he had been wearing his costume, as he always did. This one was more skin-tight and less flamboyant than his old Avenging Angel get-up, but just as warm when he took to the air. Although it was not strictly necessary he took a few running steps before throwing himself over the edge of the balcony, his wings held flat against his back as he rocketed downwards. He was only metres away from the ground before he spread his wings and only feet away before his momentum took him upwards again. It only took a few strong flaps before he had risen high above even the highest skyscraper and could look down over the city. Along with the wings, his mutation had given him eyesight as strong as a falcon and he could even make out the faces of the pedestrians below clearly. In fact, everything seemed clearer far above the city with no company save the wind streaming past him. He did several complex aerial manoeuvres without even concentrating as his mind focussed on other matters, in particular those raised by his father's unexpected visit.

Although he would never admit it to his parents, there had been truth in what they had said. His reputation had taken something of a battering in the gossip columns and several had spread spurious rumours as to the reasons, mostly focussing on his sexuality, which he found far less offensive than the anonymously-written column that had suggested he had taken up Scientology. So far, none of them had even considered the possibility the former golden boy of high society was really a mutant, and by appearing in public he could at least give them something new to discuss. Besides, when- because as far as he was concerned it was only a question of time- before mutants in general and his own status became common knowledge, he would not be able to inveigle himself back into the upper classes so easily, and mutants would need as many people in influential positions as possible. He sighed but realised there were too many good reasons for him to attend for him to pass up the chance... but that didn't mean he had to like it.

_Algerian Embassy, New York_

Monet St. Croix lounged in her luxurious quarters, thoroughly bored. Everything about her surroundings was expensive and stylish- but so last year! Besides, she'd seen it all before anyway, there was nothing here to get excited about. Truth be told, she had not really wanted to come here in the first place, but fate had forced her hand. Since the detective agency she had (again, reluctantly) joined had been temporarily disbanded she had found herself temporarily out of a home. She could quite easily have got herself a penthouse of course but those tedious halfwit spies working for SHIELD had insisted on tracking her, thinking she wouldn't notice. She had therefore returned to where her father worked, here at the embassy and on politically neutral ground. There was no way they could spy on her here without risking a major political incident.

"Monet?"

"Yes?" Her voice was bored but whoever had spoken didn't seem to care overly. They entered the room and she rolled her eyes to see it was Nicole, one of the insufferable twins who had been the bane of her life since her return. Being only seventeen, seven years less than Monet herself, they were intrigued by her life outside the embassy, as they had so far been reduced to private tutoring and the occasional international shopping marathon.

"Papa wants to know if you will be attending the ball tonight."

"I haven't decided yet," Monet said. Cartier St Croix, her father, was the Algerian ambassador but a minor celebrity in his own right due to his presidency of several international corporations, and it was in this capacity that he had been invited to the ball. Monet had been invited too, or at least she had invited herself- what ball would not be improved by her presence? - but she still wasn't sure whether to grace it with her attendance or not. On one hand, it would be relief from staying at the Embassy, but on the other she would surely be trading one kind of tedium for another, having to feign disinterest in all the dirty old men pretending not to ogle her, as she knew from experience would happen.

"Well, you can make up your mind soon," Nicole said, possessing the hereditary St. Croix self-assurance; who else would dare order her around so? Monet decided that just for Nicole's presumption she would delay her decision further and make her sister more impatient still.

"And when I do, I'll tell him- and not you," she said. "Now get out of my room."

Nicole pulled a face at her older sister but flounced out regardless. Monet remained in her lazy horizontal position but rose into the air- one of the benefits of being telekinetic. She stretched voluptuously and floated across to the wardrobe. A wave of her hand and the door opened, another and several dresses drifted out and hung in midair before her. She used her powers to twirl and turn them, examining them carefully. All of them were breathtakingly expensive, artfully revealing and likely to be worn only once- though that last point was of no concern to Monet, who wouldn't even notice the cost of such extravagance. She made her decision and waved the others back into the cupboard. She pulled the one she had chosen, a long, deep purple number, over to her and tried it up against her body. Yes, this should do. Nice and tight where appropriate, loose where needed, and a slit that would reveal a shapely leg. Let's see those old goats try and stop drooling when they saw her in this!

She wondered when she had made the decision that she would attend, but realised it was not important. Now that she had made the choice, she would go through with it to the best of her abilities. She wondered whether she should tell her father yet, or make him wait on her decision. She could just let him know telepathically if she really wanted to annoy the twins, whose powers were similar to her own but much less potent, as she was not slow to remind them at all opportunities. In the end she decided to take things at her own pace. She floated back over to the bed and lay down on it. She lifted a book off the table and summoned it to where she lay. It hovered at a comfortable reading distance before her eyes but she was not really paying much attention. Despite herself, she began thinking back to the times she had had with what had once been Cortex Investigations, and would presumably be X-Factor Investigations when it returned. It would remain a presumption though, as she had no idea what would happen to the other members, or whether they would ever return. Julio Esteban Richter had last been seen heading towards Mexico in search of something, though there was no word on what. Teresa Cassidy had returned to her native Ireland on family business, Monet herself had come here, and Guido Carosella had been left holding down the metaphorical fort, keeping the headquarters in adequate condition for the proposed resumption of duty.

Of course, there was one other member of the group she had tried not to think about- James Maddox. The late James Maddox, really, as he was dead in every sense except the most literal. It was his fate that had lead her to try and avoid thinking about him. Hours before their run-in with mutant gangster Martin 'Mr Negative' Li, they had been contacted by two teenage mutants claiming to be from the infamous X-Men, or at least training with them. One of them had borne an uncanny resemblance to James at the same age, and after the mission the two had shaken hands- only for James to vanish. Vanished may not have been the exact term, after all they knew exactly where he had gone- into the body of the teenage Jamie Madrox. There had been a complicated genetic process that disturbed Monet too much to really try and understand, but in the end Maddox and Madrox had ended up merged somehow into a body somewhere between both in age and appearance and with a mind presumably in the same condition- should it rise from its current vegetative state.

The book had flown across the room as Monet thought of James, and she scowled at the uncharacteristic lapse of concentration. Her poise and self-control were far too strong for anyone to have guessed, but there had been a more personal loss for Monet with James', no _Maddox's_... passing on. Monet was a sensual, passionate woman who knew her own needs, and with the other options being a distorted buffoon or a lewd degenerate, she had decided Maddox would be the one to take care of those needs. He had been passably handsome and she supposed an adequate enough lover, though far below her preferred standards of course. Of course, it also annoyed the one other person who knew of the relationship, if it could be called that, Teresa- who had thought no-one would notice she herself was in love with Maddox. Those were the only reasons for Monet to have taken Maddox as a lover, she was now sure of that, but it was still an annoying and, if she was honest, upsetting loss.

Monet glanced at the clock; several hours of tedium before she would have to get ready for the ball. She made a grasping gesture and the book flew back into her hand. She began turning the pages idly, her thoughts wandering. She hoped the evening would at least be more interesting than this.

_An Undisclosed Location_

Many of the men could not disguise their glee, although the black masks did a good enough job for them at that. They had been gathered by the man standing on top of one crate as a lieutenant crow-barred open another to reveal row upon row of sleek, black death in the shape of assault rifles. These were passed around amongst the hired killers, who handled their new toys with evident enjoyment. These men were professionals and as such treated the weapons with great respect, but that didn't mean they didn't enjoy handling the deadly guns. Several of them sighted along the barrels, while others hefted them carefully to test weight and balance. A second lieutenant had opened a smaller box and begun passing out grenades, and in the background a thin, wiry man wearing earphones had produced a complicated looking device covered in switches and gauges and was whistling cheerfully as he twirled several dials. He seemed happy with what he found as he gave a thumbs-up to the main leader, who coughed and got the attention of everyone in the room.

"Okay, listen up. You guys have been paid good money for this job, and you were paid a lot of it. You are going to earn that money by acting as goddamned professionals! You've all been given the information on our targets and what we're trying achieve, and so help me god, we're going to pull this off. That means no shooting unless completely necessary, no stealing jewellery or making unnecessary threats. We can block off all communications from the building but if there's gunfire, people will here, and police will come running, and people _will _die, most likely including all of us here. You got that, people? Keep it quick, keep it clean and keep it simple! The Reavers _will _prevail!"

The men cheered heartily and pumped their fists in the air. The two men in charge of weapons finished their allotted tasks and tested their own weaponry, finding it more than adequate for the job. One passed a gun up to the leader, who smiled as he watched the so-called Reavers working themselves up. This, he was sure, would be a night to remember.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: High Society**

_The Ballroom_

Warren soared through the air, enjoying what he saw as his last few minutes of freedom. He was neatly dressed in his tuxedo, which had been adjusted at great expense and dire threats to accommodate his wings by a tailor of known quality and discretion. Of course, when he actually entered the room Warren would have to use his image inducer, which he had purchased on seeing the one designed by Xavier. He would have to keep his wings folded close to his back and make sure he didn't accidentally barge into anyone, or anything, with the wings no-one would see, but he supposed he would have to put up with that discomfort for now. He alighted on the roof of the building and looked down at the slime trail of the limousines crawling along the pavement like snails, and at a similar pace. He was probably taking an unnecessary risk by chancing exposure like this, but then again, why would any of them see him up here when they were so used to looking down at people? Warren grinned darkly. It was amazing how quickly those glittering, posturing people had changed from 'us' to 'them.' Being a mutant transcended all class barriers, as he had quickly found out... but it seemed as though he had not fully shaken off his snobbery, merely redirected it. He saw another limousine pull up and an up and coming young movie starlet prance out on her high heels. The paparazzi noticed too and soon turned their cameras on her, the flickering of the cameras almost painful in their brightness in his superhuman eyes. She gave them a practiced, polished smile and walked inside, somehow contriving to try and display her 'best side' to all sides at once. Warren found it rather depressing, really.

Another limousine pulled up, this time it was a couple who stepped out, a classic combination: the silver fox, an older but still distinguished and handsome man, and the blonde kitten, his much younger paramour. Of course, with these people 'young' seemed a relative term; the girl seemed within a few years of thirty either way but even from where he was perched, Warren could make out the telltale signs of plastic surgery. He hated to think what those Barbie-doll types would do if they were to find out they were mutants too- surgery to try and remove the offending... feature? His parents had certainly dropped several well-known surgeons into conversation that could deal with Warren's own 'little problem.' Warren decided he would not be able to put his entry off forever, and that he may as well get it over with. He flew up into the air and floated along until he found a suitably shadowy landing point, an alleyway several blocks away. He walked out, adjusted his clothes and strolled along until he reached the milling hordes of photographers and journalists. His appearance did not go unnoticed and he heard his name mentioned several times.

"Worthington's boy... he's back... what's he doing here?... his father... some press stunt...?"

"Mr Worthington? Warren?" One voice made itself heard over the noise and he turned to find a microphone shoved into his face. His eyes trailed down the hand holding it, up the arm, then alighted on the face. It only took him a few seconds to put a name to it.

"Ms Tilby," he said politely. He had his public face on again, smiling the smile at the top of a dozen 'most eligible bachelor' lists. "It's been a while."

"It certainly has," Trish Tilby said. "Where have you been all this time? Where did you go?"

"Oh you know... here and there," he said vaguely. "I've been... travelling. Learning more about the world."

"So why did you decide to come back? And why now?" Trish pressed him. She had managed to get herself into prime position and whatever remained of exclusivity would be hers but cameras were flashing and pens scribbling as the rest of the pack circled excitedly.

"Why not?" Warren waved the question aside. "Maybe it's just time for me to get my feet back on the ground." He enjoyed knowing that even those who made their money cutting apart every celebrity utterance in forensic detail would never guess the subtext to that answer. However, Trish Tilby was not finished with him just yet.

"So the rumours that you fell out with your father are just that?" she asked. "After all, at an event like this... well, you won't be able to avoid him."

"Why would I want to?" Warren shot back. "Do you all know something I don't?" That made the score Warren Worthington III two, gutter press nil. Warren was beginning to enjoy himself. "I can assure you Trish that I was speaking to my father only earlier this very afternoon. If that's all?"

With that he turned neatly and walked into the elegant lobby, fighting to keep the smile off his face. It was not quite up there with rescuing people from burning buildings as the Avenging Angel but this was as good as he had felt in some time.

A few minutes later, another limousine rolled up, this one bearing diplomatic plates. Technically speaking, Cartier was not here in his official role, but as an ambassador he had a limousine and a driver and he would be damned if he was not going to use it. All three of his girls had accompanied him in the end; he had not originally intended to bring the twins but they had inherited the St. Croix stubbornness and it would be more trouble than it was worth to try and stop them coming. However, he was beginning to regret that decision. Monet was as aloof and poised as ever, but the twins were rather less so. They were rarely invited to this kind of event, as they tended to get rather overexcited. At only seventeen they were old enough to appreciate and enjoy the glitzy, prestigious atmosphere but not old enough to fully comprehend the serious business that went on behind the scenes. Ninety percent of the conversations that occurred would be business agreements, albeit no-one would be so gauche as to word it like that. News would be discussed, innovations mentioned, trends in the market may find their way into the conversation, and over champagne and classical music deals would be brokered and favours exchanged and everyone involved would go off knowing a good night's business had been done. That would be made exponentially harder by having a pair of giggly teenage girls making moon-eyes at every handsome young man they came across, and even harder when the girls in question were themselves very pretty. More than a few of the more unscrupulous men in the room would not hesitate to use fine wine, fancy language and subtle displays of power to charm the twins into whatever they wanted, which was something Cartier could do without. Tonight of all nights he could do without any distractions whatsoever. There was talk of what was potentially a game-changing deal in the making, something that would have technical, political and social implications; anyone who could get a stake in such a situation would have riches more rewarding and useful than mere money, and Cartier naturally wanted to be part of that. On the other hand, if they thought he would be distracted, others may underestimate him in turn and he could use that to his advantage.

The limousine slowed and stopped and Cartier turned to face his daughters. To their credit the twins stopped their twittering and nudging of each other and adopted solemn expressions. Cartier offered them each an arm and they exited the limousine together, making their way up the red carpet as a trio. Monet watched them go but did not make any move to join them. She knew exactly what her father was doing; playing up the sympathy vote even though their mother had been dead over seven years now. She waited for them to be inside before making an appearance herself. As she stood up she paused just long enough for any sharp enough photographer to take a very striking photograph but without holding the pose long enough to be obvious about it. She walked towards the lobby at a pace perfectly calculated to ensure the best median between favourable coverage and appropriate grace. She knew, of course, just how good she looked. The dress a perfect colour to set off her looks, and cut just right to emphasise a body money just could not buy. The necklace and earrings that were her only accessories were understated yet classy, with her sleek, ebony hair stretching down to her shoulders in a luscious wave. Oh yes, she looked damned good, even by her standards, and it had been a long time since she had really shown off her looks. She made her way into the lobby, where an hotelier in a tuxedo bowed graciously and showed her into the main room. Just as she expected, there was a classical band playing some elegant waltz- Strauss if she was not mistaken, and she very rarely was.

As she had expected, several heads turned as soon as she walked in. Not in the same literal way the photographers' had, or the way she turned heads on the street; these people held to a higher standard. You wouldn't get to the top end of the industry if your attention wandered so obviously; a moment's distraction would be noted, and a moment would be all it took for your schemes to be shattered and hopes dashed. Nonetheless, the corners of some of the sharpest eyes in the country were focussed on the beautiful young woman who suddenly appeared. Monet decided to play things safe to begin with and joined her father and sisters; she could enjoy herself later but for now she wanted to see how events would pan out.

She found him already deep in conversation with a swarthy-looking man she would have identified as South American, Brazilian to be more exact if his accent was anything to go by. He looked vaguely familiar and she guessed he was one of her father's older business partners, or even a friend if men of their position could ever be friends.

"Ms St. Croix... you look truly beautiful," he said, kissing her hand. Fortunately in doing so he completely missed her rolling her eyes. She had suspected it from the beginning but had just had that conviction proved- he was one of the old-fashioned kind, the ones that collected and disposed of beautiful women with the same regularity and dispassion they bought and sold stocks and shares, simply as a sign of their masculinity. Monet's father on the other hand noticed her expression and knew from past experience how quick she was to launch a barbed comment and quickly intervened.

"Emmanuel, do you know who that is over there?" he asked quickly, pointing out a man who was somewhere between the ages of the dilettante playboys eyeing up the starlets and the older, more level-headed businessmen.

"That's Anthony Stark," Emmanuel said. "Howard's son, meant to be something special apparently." Emmanuel da Costa was not a man to be distracted easily though and he quickly turned his attentions back to Monet. At least, such was his intention but Monet had already gone. She had hoped that this would prove some kind of diversion but unfortunately things had turned out exactly as she had thought. Well, if she could not find a distraction, she would make one. She couldn't help a smile as a sudden thought struck her, and she sauntered across the room, using her telepathy to read the thoughts of everyone around her as she went. She was vaguely aware that some people would consider it unethical to probe other peoples' minds like this, without their permission, but she couldn't see the argument. As far as she was concerned, you would not walk around with your eyes closed simply because some people were blind, so why should she abstain from using gifts no-one else had? She was different to them- better than them, when it came down to it- so why pretend otherwise?

She was not particularly surprised by what she found. Many of the men were appreciative of her looks, and many of the women were aware of that fact. She eventually set her sights on the one she had heard her father name 'Tony Stark'- he was old enough to be good conversation and have the dignity not to drool over her, but still young enough to be interesting and passably good-looking, even with that ridiculous goatee. He was also accompanied by a redhead with poise and confidence to match Monet's, and Monet was determined to rectify that situation. She paused for a natural pause in the conversation before cutting in; there were such a thing as manners after all.

"Good evening, Anthony," she said smoothly. Stark turned quickly, obviously taken unawares, and his eyes widened as they took in the sight of the newcomer. Monet managed to keep the smirk off her face as she noticed the tiny tells passing over his face: the reflexive but charming grin, the oh-so-slight narrowing of the eyes as he tried to remember her name, clearly believing that they must have met before to be on first name terms. He quickly recovered and introduced her to the others, hoping one of them would know her and address her by name.

"A better one for your presence," he said smoothly. A bit too smoothly really, a bit slick, but better than some would have managed. "This is Brian Braddock-" he introduced a tall blonde man of square-jawed good looks. An intriguing possibility should Stark prove too dull... "-and his wife Meggan." Meggan turned out to be a short elfin woman. Wife, not girlfriend, and therefore too much hassle for Monet to concern herself with... She would have to hope Stark proved diverting then. "And this is Natasha Romanov."

"Charmed," the redhead said, her smile not fooling Monet for a moment. Natasha had a distinct Russian accent, which suited her voice and added to her other physical charms. All the more satisfying then to humiliate her... Stark realised that he would have to try and bluff his way through.

"And this is-"

"Miss St. Croix... is it Monet?" Braddock said. He had an accent too, but his was that of English high society. Monet was surprised he had recognised her, as she did not remember him, but supposed that she was after all very memorable. "Your father and mine have done business- selling some industrial equipment to Braddock Laboratories."

Now Monet remembered. That had been several years ago, and Brian had certainly not been the chiselled specimen he was now- she could remember a gangly, awkward looking young man, certainly no-one worth a second glance; the transformation was... impressive. She nodded politely and turned back to Stark.

"Would you care for a dance?" she offered, her tone making it quite clear that if he had any sense the answer would be yes. To her surprise, Stark looked to Romanov before answering, clearly seeking her permission, but not in the way an anxious boyfriend would do; now Monet came to think about it, the way Romanov was looking at Stark was more like a bodyguard than a lover. Monet risked a quick psychic probe of the Russian's mind but to her surprise came up against a solid wall- nothing she couldn't break down but much stronger than a normal person's. Even more surprisingly, even at that fleeting contact, Romanov's eyes suddenly narrowed and she tensed subtly, and Monet realised she had felt the touch- which should have been impossible for anyone without training. She had a feeling Stark was not worth this fuss and turned away, fuming inwardly. She was not used to failure but Romanov was clearly not a normal human, and Monet had no intention of getting caught up in mutant affairs.

Warren had also made his way inside, but he had instead stuck to the edge of the crowd. His presence had already created a minor stir, and he had no intention of poking that particular hornet's nest. Besides, if he stayed to one side his parents would not be able to contact him without breaking off their current conversation, and he suspected they would not take that chance. He was looking around at the crowd when he heard a voice say his name.

"Warren? What are you doing here?"

He spun around, hoping he wouldn't catch anyone with his wings. He had maintained his usual polite smile but it took on a distinctly glassy edge when he realised who had spoken to him.

"Candy?" He coughed and tried again. "Candy, what an unexpected pleasure to see you here."

"Unexpected?" Candy repeated. "I've been trying to contact you all weekend, but you never replied to any of my messages..."

"Well, you know how it is, business before pleasure," Warren said quickly. "I really wasn't expecting to be here tonight myself to be honest."

"Oh... well, as you _are_ here..." Candy began hesitantly. Warren may be rusty but he knew a hint when he heard one.

"A dance, then?" he offered. There was no polite way to get out of it, unfortunately; he would have to go through the motions. Hopefully after one dance he would be able to think of a decent excuse to leave. He lead her to the dance-floor and they began a slow waltz. Warren wasn't really thinking about Candy, or anything much; he was operating mostly out of habit. He suddenly felt an odd sensation in his head, as though someone had run a feather over his forehead. He recognised it instantly as the mark of a telepathic contact, having felt it before at the hands- and mind- of Professor Charles Xavier, founder of the X-Men. Most people would dismiss it if they even noticed in the first place, but he had too much experience to make that mistake. The problem with telepathy, though, was that it was, well, telepathic. Unless the person had the grace to introduce themselves, it would be nearly impossible to identify them in a crowd. He noticed a few heads turning slightly and a couple of puzzled expressions as some people noticed the telepathic interference, even if they did not identify it. As far as he could tell, the source appeared to be a tall girl with long, dark hair, but that was about all he could tell about her.

"Excuse me," he said to Candy, with such a dazzling smile she didn't even realise he hadn't actually given any reason at all to snub her mid-dance. She simply smiled herself as she watched him walk away. Warren managed to make his way through the crowd, nodding and smiling politely when people addressed him but not slowing in his pursuit. He could see the girl talking to Tony Stark and the mysterious Ms Romanov, and although he could not hear the conversation over the music and hum of conversation, he could tell it hadn't gone according to her plan. He noticed her making her way back across the room and took the opportunity to examine her more closely: tall, shapely, extremely attractive and she knew it, which to some would only add to her allure... and, it seemed, a telepath, a mutant like himself. But what should he do next? She was clearly aware and in control of her powers, but that didn't mean she would appreciate anyone bringing them up in conversation...

Warren Worthington Junior was deep in conversation with a number of like-minded individuals, all of whom were discussing one subject, and one subject only: mutants. Of course, they were all too experienced and canny to commit themselves to any particular stance, but that was no reason not to try and ascertain the most common view.

"I think this is just the beginning," Worthington said. "If we had no idea that mutants even existed, we could not make any move to... track them."

"You think that they have been making plans, then?" One of his companions asked.

"I think there is more to them than we know," Worthington said. He didn't want to nail his colours to the anti-mutant mast just yet, but he was pretty certain by now that the prevailing view on mutants was not exactly positive.

"There are rumours going around, after all," said another man, Bolivar Trask. He was relatively new to the upper echelons; his fortune had taken a jump in recent times, his company was now worth more than it had ever been. "They say the Sentinel Project may still be operating..."

Worthington noticed the tiny flicker in every pair of eyes as they analysed the words. The Sentinel Project? That was big, big news if it was true. The original Sentinel had been involved in the revelation of mutants, and although all details on the so-called Apocalypse incident had been covered up, it seemed unlikely the anti-mutant robots would not have been involved in some capacity. And with mutant numbers on the rise, the prospect of a control method resurfacing was not out of the realms of possibility... On the other hand, the Sentinels had caused a lot of damage, and by funding them you would forever associate yourself with the mutant issue, however that turned out in the end.

Of course, the Sentinel Project was one that was tailored almost perfectly to Worthington Industries. They had always been at the very forefront of technological research and development, the only ones who had even come close was Stark and now his son, but they focussed on small-scale technology, cybernetics and firearms for the military mostly, while Worthington had tailored his company for heavier machinery, creating vehicles and construction equipment, all of which would not take a lot of tinkering to adapt to Sentinel production instead. Ever since his son had outed himself as a mutant, Worthington had also discretely purchased a small but highly advanced science laboratory that worked on various means to nullify or even... cure... mutants. Not only could he build the Sentinels, he could improve the design, adapt and advance them. And with the mutant population expanding with meteoric speed, anyone who had a way to counter their threat would find themselves in high demand. As befitted a businessman as hard-headed and practical as Worthington, he was not particularly given to flights of imagination, but even he could not resist losing himself in a vision of the future possibilities... the sky really would be the limit... that thought reminded him of his son and brought him crashing out of his daydream. Warren would not be happy at all if he discovered his father's plans- even before his little problem had arisen, the younger Worthington had been worryingly liberal and sentimental, and there was no way that he would stand for the company he would inherit creating machines designed to combat mutants...

_Outside the Hotel_

The young bellhop standing outside and waiting for any late guests considered himself something of a film aficionado, and particularly of action or thriller films. Therefore the sight of a black van with darkened windows tipped him off immediately that something was not quite right- there was a lot of money gathered in one room inside that hotel and it was not unfeasible that some opportunistic gangster would attempt a heist. However, although the van slowed down it did not stop and he watched it pass out of sight before relaxing- false alarm.

Only a few yards away, the car full of men sniggered at the unsuspecting man. The car looked like any other, although of course the registration plate was completely false, and the men inside were not wearing their masks or anything that would give them away as anything unusual. They waited for their signal. The taxi across the road flashed its headlights once, twice, three times- the all clear signal.

"Let's go." The order was passed around and the men clambered out. All of them were dressed in sharp suits of various colours but impeccable taste, looking for all the world like more members of the elite group socialising and scheming at the ball. They made their way towards the bellhop, who looked at them in concern. He didn't have to be a film freak to know that a bunch of suited men with an air of menace and purpose meant very bad news. The leader of the men approached the younger man with a faux-friendly smile.

"Excuse me sir, but I have to ask you-"

"No, I'm doing the asking," the man contradicted him in a low voice, the fake grin never wavering. He had somehow produced a squat, menacing pistol and was pressing it into the boy's stomach. "And I'm asking you to just go inside and save us both the trouble of having your guts blown out of your back."

The bellhop edged backwards and into the lobby. Surrounded by suited men, it would be impossible for anyone to see the gun jammed into his abdomen and so the receptionists and doormen looked very confused to see the entrance of the newcomers. The man with the gun made a pointing gesture with his free hand and within moments the other men had also produced guns and were menacing the other staff of the hotel.

"Hands in the air, ladies," one of them ordered the receptionists. "You so much as glance as the emergency switch and I blow your damn heads off, got it?"

Another man was in the face of the youngest and fittest looking of the doormen, and thus the one most likely to cause problems. "Don't even think of any heroics," he growled. The leader swung his gun and caught the bellhop on the temple, knocking the poor boy out cold. The leader gestured to one of his men that looked about the right size.

"You, switch uniforms and get out there, we don't want any attention."

As the man quickly stripped off the bellboy's clothes and put them on himself, the leader pulled out a small phone from his pocket. It only had one number on it, but it was the only one he would need. It had barely rung twice when someone answered at the other end.

"Yes?"

"We're in, it's locked down. We can proceed."

"Understood." The phone clicked off without another word but a few moments later five more men walked in, each with a briefcase in each hand. These were quickly opened to reveal the weapons tested earlier, which were passed around until every man present had one. One case also had the strange device being worked on earlier, which was quickly placed on the desk and turned on. The air was filled with a low hum.

"Is it working?" The leader asked tersely.

"Better believe it," the other man said happily. "With this baby on, there're no phone-calls in or out, all cameras down, nothing working without my permission."

"Good work," the leader said. "Okay, you three, you stay here in case one of these heroes plays up. The rest of you- masks on and follow me."

The men pulled on their masks and raised their weapons as they followed their leader into the main room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Meet and Greet**

_The Ballroom_

Monet's polite smile had not so much as wobbled since Romanov's odd behaviour had prompted a prudent retreat, but inwardly she was seething. It was not that she was particularly jealous, Stark had merely been a diversion not an active pursuit, but it stung that she had not proven triumphant, as was her custom. Briefly she contemplated using her telepathy on the Russian woman regardless of her strange psychic defences- Monet knew that no-one could possibly match her mental mastery, but Romanov may prove resilient enough that her humiliation would be all the more satisfying. Monet considered her options. She could subsume Romanov's mind entirely, and make her act in unusual and embarrassing ways- an impromptu strip-tease perhaps, or running around yelling insults at everyone present. No, that was too crude, not subtle enough, and too unlike the Russian's normal poise; someone would suspect something was wrong. Of course, there were other options. Monet's telepathy was masterful enough that she could bypass Romanov's consciousness and simply seize control of her bodily functions; it would be amusing to watch the Russian try and maintain that arrogant posturing with her bowels and rectum voiding themselves uncontrollably (or at least, beyond Romanov's control.) Monet eventually ruled that option out as well. Although she was sure she could penetrate Romanov's defences, she had to concede it would be hard to do without making it obvious something was going on, and she was not about to give the redhead the satisfaction. She contemplated using her powers on Stark instead. Despite the ambiguous nature of their relationship, with Romanov's protective nature being professional not personal, you did not have to be as capable a telepath as Monet to tell that Stark's own feelings on the matter were much beyond professional. Some of the thoughts Monet was picking up from him were enough to make even someone as worldly and poised as her raise a bemused eyebrow, and it would make an entertaining diversion to make him vocalise some of them aloud- particularly the one involving hamsters and peanut butter. Monet would love to see Romanov remain aloof and professional after hearing _that_.

Eventually she decided to write the entire plan off, not as a failure- that would be unthinkable- but merely as a waste of time and effort that could be more productively spent elsewhere. She was forced to pause her planning by the sound of two very familiar giggles. It had not taken long for those idiot twins of hers to fall under the charm of a young man with passable wit and moderate good looks -from his appearance, Monet would have guessed him to be a relative of Sebastian Shaw, an industrialist who also happened to be one of the few people her father could not even dissemble politeness around and towards. For that reason alone it would be tempting to leave the situation as it was, simply for her father's reaction when (or if) he noticed. On the other hand, it would be a very sad day that a St. Croix had anything to do with those upstart posturing pretender Shaws, and it would give Monet a valid excuse to use her powers. She started to make her way over, mentally running through a list of hallucinations she would subject the arrogant young fool to, when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Excuse me, Ms. St. Croix?"

The newcomer had either the temerity or foolishness to dare to lay a hand on her bare shoulder without permission, and she whirled around to punish the transgression, only to be greeted with a smile so warm and charming even she found herself short of words. The hand belonged to a tall, blonde haired young man of about her own age, and even after he turned the smile down a few notches he remained one of the best-looking people she had ever seen outside a mirror.

"How did you know my name?" she demanded rudely, recovering admirably quickly. The smile vanished, but was replaced with an amused expression that proved annoyingly infectious; Monet had to make a concerted effort to stop her own lips twitching upwards.

"Your beauty precedes you, Ms St. Croix- you are the talk of everyone present," the man said smoothly, and mostly truthfully- it had not taken long to find someone who could identify the beautiful girl in the purple dress. Monet had by now fully recovered, and no matter how incredibly attractive she found the man she was not about to fall for a line like that.

"And you were doing so well," she snapped, swiping his hand away. "Follow me, and you lose that hand." She turned and flounced away. Warren watched her go, eyes drawn to the long, slim legs and firm, proud backside so prominently highlighted by her dress. It had been a long time since anyone had rejected him quite so brusquely, and there was now intrigue mixed to his more visceral interest, not to mention his suspicion that she was indeed the one responsible for the psychic probe he had felt earlier. He hurried to catch up with her, managing to catch up with her in the middle of the room amongst the dancing couples. Despite her earlier warning, he again reached for her shoulder. She spun around in anger, one hand raised reflexively, but Warren was still faster- one hand grasping the outstretched arm and the other snaking around her waist and pulling her close, into a waltz. His gamble that she would not cause a scene surrounded by others proved successful, and although her eyes blazed angrily at him she found herself falling into the dance.

"Enjoy yourself while you can, because I'm going to make you regret this for the rest of your short life," she murmured into his shoulder.

"It would be worth it," Warren whispered back. "Nothing could make me regret a dance with such a beautiful girl."

"Keep talking, please, it will only make it more satisfying to break you in half," Monet replied. Despite the anger she tried to put into her voice, not even Monet St. Croix could totally resist the devastating Worthington charm for long, and Warren sensed her body relax subtly.

"You have more powers than telepathy, then?" he guessed as they swayed to the music. Despite herself, Monet stiffened in surprise, but Warren spun them gently to hide her shock from those around them.

"How did you know that?" she asked, in as demanding a tone as could be mustered without raising her voice above a murmur. Warren gave her another smile and again she was obviously softened.

"Let us just say that it takes one to know one, Ms St. Croix," he suggested.

*_You're a telepath?*_ the voice in his head had the same throaty, entrancing accent, and her curiosity was obvious. *_No... But you _are _a mutant..._* He felt the familiar but still unsettling sensation of a telepath exploring his mind. A second later the arm she had on his waist rose up and ran circumspectly across his back- or more accurately, an inch or so above it. Warren felt her cool fingers on his wings.

"Interesting," Monet said aloud, but still too quietly for a passer-by to hear. "How did you know it was me?"

She had clearly gathered that he had sensed her telepathic probe earlier, and was now trying a more mundane version to find out how- and why.

"Would you believe me that I didn't, and merely wanted an excuse to dance?" Warren said lightly.

"Would you believe _me_ that I could crush your hand into powder if you try one more line like that?" Monet replied. Warren was intrigued by the contrast she presented- the incredibly attractive appearance, but the abrasive personality to repel anyone who came close. He was also aware enough of the deceptive, disproportionate strength in her slim arms to know she was perfectly capable of pulling through on her threat should she so wish.

"Why the hostility, Monet?" he asked. "I'm merely making small talk..."

The band reached the end of the song and Warren fully expected Monet to pull away and walk off, but although she did step backwards she did not leave, merely looked at him with an expression somewhere between annoyance and interest.

"Small talk, small interest," she said simply. "Clearly you lack the brains to match your looks."

The band started up again on their next song, and this time it was Monet who pulled Warren closer. The winged mutant was not foolish enough to mistake it for affection or attraction though- he was aware that Monet was establishing her physically superiority and making it clear whose terms the conversation was to be on.

"And you lack the manners to match your beauty," Warren said, his tone soft but words sharp. He saw the anger pass across Monet's face and smiled to himself. This girl was interesting and attractive but he was not about to let her walk all over him.

"At least you have a spine," Monet conceded. That seemed to be the closest to an apology he was going to receive, but he let it slide. He noticed that Monet was paying no attention to him, her body moving automatically but her mind elsewhere. Something about her expression was troubled and he realised she wasn't ignoring him to be rude, she was genuinely distracted- and disturbed.

"Monet? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Anger, lots of anger," she said vaguely. "It's coming closer..." Her expression changed to one of, if not fear, then at least severe concern. "Warren, we've got to get out of here, now." She fitted actions to words and began hauling him across the room with more haste than dignity. People had noticed and were beginning to murmur when suddenly a far more pressing concern grabbed the attention of all present as the door was smashed open and men wearing expensive suits and black masks piled into the room. Any thoughts of laughter at the incongruity of their appearance were instantly hushed by the sight of the heavy guns in their hands.

"No-one move!" one of the men bellowed, sweeping the gun before him for emphasis. "Everybody against the wall, now!"

The men began spreading throughout the room, shoving people towards the sides and poking gun barrels into the backs of those too slow to comply. One woman screamed but a thug rammed the butt of his gun into her stomach and forced the air from her lungs, and the woman wheezed painfully as she was propelled towards the closest wall. One of the younger men present made to resist the thugs, but the man who seemed to be the thugs' leader levelled the gun at the man's face.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he said threateningly. The man subsided and slunk away.

Monet had made the most of the confusion to yank Warren out of sight behind the platform the band were still standing on in shocked silence. Warren was no coward, as he had proved more than once with the X-Men, but alone against all these men were not odds in his favour.

"Are your wings your only power or can you do something useful?" Monet demanded. Warren was annoyed with her dismissal of his powers- flight was much more useful than commonly supposed.

"Hey listen, flying might just be more useful than you- oh, come on!" His whispered protests were cut short when Monet rose off the floor and floated across to the other side of the platform, staying low enough for her manoeuvre to remain unnoticed.

*_If you're not going to help me, you can at least be a distraction._* Monet didn't risk her voice carrying and resorted to her telepathy instead. Ironically enough, Warren ignored the mental demand, being rather distracted himself. His father was standing right before the thug leader, fists clenched.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked angrily. "You think you can just barge in here with your guns and take us all hostage? You think you can really get away with this? Because I promise you-"

"That's _exactly _what I think," the thug smirked, swinging the barrel of his gun into Worthington's temple and knocking him to his knees. "This place is locked down, all communication is blocked off- no calls or contact in or out, so you better listen good."

*_That's the leader_* Monet said, rather unnecessarily. *_The others are just goons, we take him out and the rest will be no problem._*

_*Take him out? He's got a gun, they all have!* _Warren thought, assuming Monet could receive thoughts as well as send them. *_We're not going to achieve anything by getting killed. We need a plan!_*

*You _plan! I'm going to deal with these morons myself!_*Monet said angrily. She soared into the air and began to speed towards the leader, fists before her, but even at her speed she had covered only a few feet before a scarlet beam of energy flashed through the air and smashed her into a wall hard enough to leave an imprint. The energy beam, whatever it was, had not come from any of the thugs, but from the direction of the stand Warren was hiding behind. Warren risked raising his head and saw that one of the tuxedoed band members had discarded his tuba and was holding a weapon like the thugs'.

"Nice work, Reese," the leader congratulated him. The leader made his way across to the prone Monet and stood over her, gloating. "You might be invulnerable to physical harm, St. Croix, but these babies will kill you just like anyone else. Don't try anything clever- the Reavers don't do second warnings."

It was worrying that they knew who Monet was, and the extent of her powers well enough to design or buy a weapon specifically to counteract them. Warren was aware of his earlier warning regarding acting before planning, but he couldn't just leave Monet there at the thug's mercy. On the other hand, if they had weapons to handle Monet, Warren was not optimistic about what would happen if they were used on him. With Worthington Senior's brief rebellion over, the other men and women were quick to toe the line and obey the Reavers' orders. The leader began walking along the line of men and women, pointing seemingly at random.

"You, over here, and you, and you," he said, gesturing with his gun to the middle of the room. "Stark, come here- uh-uh, not you Red, you stay right there, it's just your boyfriend here we want- Worthington, stop snivelling and get yourself over here."

Warren watched the small group: his father, Stark, Trask and both the Shaws were the biggest names, with a few others that Warren recognised by face but not name. The only thing he could think of that would connect them was the fact the chosen few were all known for their advanced work in technology, but some of those left behind had similar, if smaller, operations. A sixth sense suddenly warned Warren to duck, and he did so reflexively, not knowing why. He heard the Reavers' leader barking orders.

"Markham! Check the stand, I think we've got a hero wannabe!"

A Reaver appeared before Warren without warning, brandishing a gun. Warren reacted on pure instinct flexing his wings. One buffeted the unfortunate Markham against a wall, where he slid to the floor with a groan.

"Suppressive fire!" The leader barked, hearing the scuffle. "Reese, Silvestri, take him both sides."

Energy beams began smashing through the stand and over head, trapping Warren in place. Footsteps either side of his hiding place indicated his time was running out, and he took a desperate chance, throwing himself directly upwards. Several shots seared his side but he made it into the air still alive and conscious. The Reavers adjusted with worrying alacrity, firing upwards at him, not at random but with precision and coordination, forcing him backwards towards a corner. No matter how Warren pirouetted and jinked in the air, the sheer volume of fire forced him backwards, so he changed tactics, sweeping his wings backwards and diving straight for the Reavers' leader. In their overconfidence, the Reavers were this time slightly too slow to react and Warren's wings snapped open, taking out three other Reavers as his shoulder rammed into the leader's stomach. Warren landed neatly and swiped with his wings, taking two other Reavers out in as many seconds, but he had forgotten Reese, the one who had been masquerading as a band member and who was now behind him, lining up a free shot.

"WARREN!" Worthington shouted desperately, but too late. Warren spun around, but it only ensured that the beam that would have landed between his shoulders hit him in the chest instead. He found himself blown off his feet and across the room, molten streams of lava-hot agony pouring across his body from the point of impact, and when the impact of the wall sent him tumbling from consciousness, his last second of thought was one of relief that the pain was over.

"Yo, what do we do with these freaks, Pierce? You wanna ice 'em or what?" One of the Reavers asked. Justin Pierce, the leader of the Reavers, looked over at where St. Croix and the Worthington kid had been dragged into a corner. He scowled at the stupidity of his underlings; his uncle had promised him highly-trained recruits, and for the most part had fulfilled that promise, but it seemed that ramming military knowledge and skill through these clowns' thick skulls had forced out common sense. He had specifically wanted the mutant pair alive, why would he then kill them?

"Nah, find somewhere to stick them, somewhere they won't get out in a hurry," he said irritably. He snapped his fingers as inspiration struck him. "Ice them."

"But you just said-"

"Not literally, you moron," Pierce said, annoyed. "They do catering in this place, there'll be a big freezer unit somewhere. Cold should keep these two from waking up any time soon, but I want a guard on them in case they play up."

"Right," the Reaver said, nodding decisively. "Uh... where is the freezer?"

"How the hell should I know? Find it yourself." Pierce turned aside. The two mutants were not his concern, but his benefactor had requested they be brought in alive. Actually, it was only St. Croix mentioned, as no-one had expected the prodigal son to return to the Worthington fold, but Pierce knew it would not do his prospects any harm to bring in an extra mutant free of charge- beyond the extortionate rate he was already charging. He had started with a fee three times higher than anticipated, expecting he would have to haggle with his mysterious employer, but instead the money had been paid immediately and without comment. That told him two things: his employer had big bucks, bigger than anyone he had dealt with before, and that whatever they wanted from the businessmen Pierce had captured, they wanted it badly.

There was a buzzing sound that jerked him from his reverie, and he realised that the mobile phone in his pocket was receiving a call. The phone was the only means of contact he had with his employer, but he was mystified about how the signal managed to get through a field specifically designed to stop all signals in and out of the building.

"Pierce?" the voice was heavily distorted and warped, and Pierce had no doubt that no-one would have any luck tracking the call, even if they could receive it.

"Sir." Pierce did not know the man's name, status, race, nationality. It might not even be a man at all, the amount of distortion put onto the voice, but professional standards had to be maintained.

"Do you have the targets as requested?"

"Yes sir. We've put them all in separate room, to avoid them trying to communicate, but they are all in the same corridor, and heavily guarded."

"Good. I am glad my faith in you has been rewarded."

"Sir?" Pierce asked hesitantly. It was not strictly correct to ask questions of the client- the customer was always right, as the adage went- but the answer could have a bearing on the success or failure of the operation. "There are some very important people in here, we can handle the security- no-one's getting in or out- but eventually people will notice. There's no way we can handle a public operation."

"Justin, Justin," the voice chuckled. "You leave that to me. This operation stays buried until I say otherwise- and I have no intention of doing that."

"I'm glad to hear it," Pierce said, slightly more sharply than was prudent. Whether intentionally or not (and he was strongly inclined to the former) his employer had just emphasised precisely where the power lay in their partnership. He could ruin Pierce's plans with ease, whilst Pierce had no way of implicating the mysterious partner, even if he had known who he was. Fortunately the other man either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I have every confidence in your ability," the voice went on. "That's not why I contacted you."

Pierce hadn't thought it was. His reputation was good, very good, and there was no reason for anyone to doubt it. He suspected that whatever the man wanted, the next few words would be significant.

"I wish to contact the captives directly. I will call again in five minutes. Make sure they are ready."

"Yes sir."

The line went dead. Pierce scowled at the inoffensive plastic device as though it was totally responsible for his confusion. He had at least been correct as to the nature of the call, but had barely advanced discovering the reason. He had hoped for at least a small clue as to what his employer wanted with the captives, but had had no luck. Well, that would soon change. Whether his employer liked it or not, Justin Pierce was going to be listening to the conversation between captor and captives with a very interested ear.

On the other side of the hall, someone else was listening just as closely. Natasha Romanov was almost as angry at the kidnappers as she was at herself. She had been assigned to bodyguard Tony Stark only the week before, and already he was a captive. Under the guise of the Black Widow, Natasha had been by trade a spy, assassin and mercenary, and had regarded bodyguard duties as a definite step down. Stark's incessant and ineffective attempts at flirting had not helped the situation in the slightest, but Natasha was a professional, with training, experience and scientific enhancements that would allow her to match anyone short of superhuman, and even several of those, in a fight... except for all of those enhancements and abilities, a bunch of masked thugs with laser guns had waltzed right in and stolen her client right from under her nose. She just hoped she could retrieve the situation. She could outshoot any three mercenaries, and outfight any six, but without her gun no amount of combat skill would result in anything but her short and inglorious tenure as a bodyguard ending with a bullet- or perhaps an energy beam- between the eyes. Her gun of choice, a Beretta, had been selected for its ease to conceal, and was strapped to the inside of her left thigh, but in terms of range and stopping power fell well short of the high-tech weaponry of the Reavers; the stiletto (concealed rather appropriately in one high heel of a shoe) was even less useful. Alone, she had absolutely no chance of rescuing Stark- she would need help. The other party-goers around her were a varied mixture of age and profession, with one factor uniting them all: their absolute lack of use in a fight. The only people she could be sure would be of any assistance would be the two mutants whose foolhardy rescue attempt had lead to their swift capture. With a professional like her to guide them, they may prove more useful. All she had to do to rescue them was sneak across a wide, brightly lit ballroom, full of trained, heavily armed mercenaries, discover the mutant's location (without giving away her own), break them out and come up with a plan to then actually rescue the other hostages. She smiled to herself coldly. To think she had thought a bodyguard's job would be easy...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Hostage**

_The Freezer_

Warren was surprised to find he had woken up before Monet, although in hindsight he had taken a much less powerful blast; he was after all, much less powerful when it came down to it. Monet was still unconscious, though tossing and turning fitfully and muttering in French. She had been thrown none too gently into the freezer, and had skidded across the cold floor and against a wall. Her dress had ridden up her leg, revealing a long expanse of leg that in any other circumstance Warren could have spent a great deal of time enjoying. As it was, he was worried she would freeze, as he had no idea of the limitations of her powers. His avian physiology was adapted to let him survive at great heights, which included extreme cold and thin air, but Monet was probably not so fortunate. He had to do something quickly, and pulling the dress back down was a perfectly good start. Of course, by its nature the clothing was rather revealing, though tastefully so, and was not designed with prolonged sleep in a freezer in mind, and he would have to be much more inventive than that. She twitched again and he thought she was waking up, but she soon subsided again. Warren stood up and flexed his wings to try and get blood circulating through them again. Unfortunately, his wings were about sixteen feet across, and stretching them involved a great deal of clattering and crashing of tins and frozen food. There was an immediate rapping at the door.

"Hey, listen up freak-show. Stop clattering around in there, 'cause I'm only going to open the door to shoot you, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Warren snarled back at the guard. Belligerence was just about the only defence left to him unless he could find a way to get that door open, but before he could do that he would have to try and help Monet, who was moving much more infrequently. He was not sure whether that was good or bad, but it was not a chance he really wanted to take. He sat down next to her and pulled her close to him, wrapping his wings around them both. In her unconscious state, Monet's face had lost its usual fire but found a surprising innocence, and Warren found himself smiling despite himself. Monet had threatened to break him in two merely for dancing, he shuddered to think what she would do if- no, when- she woke to find herself in such a compromising position. He also remembered his reaction to that threat, the same he would apply to this one: it was worth it. Of course, he would trade it in an instant for a way to get out of here and back at those Reaver thugs who had put him here, but that did not seem likely right now. All he could do was watch and wait.

_The Ballroom_

Natasha had hoped that the guards would grow slack and lose focus once the initial excitement died down and the captives became more compliant, but she had hoped in vain. The man in charge, known only as Pierce, was competent and clearly intelligent, and had arranged the guards into small patrols to stop them growing too complacent. Natasha realised that she could not afford to wait for long, she would have to take a chance on the Reavers not realising her ultimate plan. She quickly pulled her shoes off, but even that small movement drew the eyes of every guard in the room, the closest one swiftly bringing his gun to bear.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm just taking my shoes off," she said, trying to sound as nervous and confused as an ordinary citizen would in her situation instead of a trained and experienced spy. "My legs hurt if I wear them too long..."

Being male, the Reaver had absolutely no experience regarding heels, but he could very well believe that they would be painful to wear. Natasha's were five inches high, to hide the blade, and for all her training remained more uncomfortable to wear than any of her combat clothing and equipment. He nodded uncertainly.

"Alright... but put them over there-" he pointed to a spot several metres away "-then come back here."

Natasha frowned; these people were not taking any chances whatsoever, whether through genuine suspicion or good old fashioned paranoia. She obeyed the instructions though, moving slowly and carefully. She made her way back to her original position, hoping for a chance to retrieve the concealed weapon. Fortunately for her, at that precise moment Pierce made an appearance and started muttering orders to the other Reavers. Several of them accompanied him as he headed towards where Stark and the other hostages had been taken earlier- and amongst those leaving was the one who had been so suspicious of her footwear. By the time another Reaver came to take his place, she had already snapped the heels off of both shoes and palmed the left one circumspectly.

"Back against the walls, lady," the Reaver snapped, waving the gun pointedly. Natasha backed up hurriedly, and found herself right next to a middle-aged gentleman with dark good looks.

"What's so important about a pair of heels?" he murmured, too quietly for the guard to hear. Natasha was impressed and a little surprised that someone had noticed her subterfuge, but that didn't mean she was going to take him into her confidence. The first rule of her trade was trust absolutely no-one, not even yourself if you suspected a telepath's involvement. Even with her mental discipline and shielding, a sufficiently powerful psychic would be able to at least read her thoughts, if not control them.

"They make my legs hurt," she said, injecting just the right tone of whining petulance into her usually husky voice. The man was obviously not totally fooled, to judge by the calculating look he was giving her.

"So why did you keep the heels?" he asked pointedly. "Look, you're obviously far too clever to be one of Stark's usual bimbos. I don't care what your game is but if it involves getting out of here, deal me in."

Natasha reconsidered her decision to exclude him totally. He was clearly intelligent and observant, and could be useful in his way. Besides, even if she did sketch an outline of her plan, she did not have to colour it in- she could tell him the minimum necessary. First she had to work out just how useful he could be.

"You don't get dealt in without putting up a stake," she replied. She had slipped naturally into mimicking his style of speech and mannerisms, the mark of a consummate spy. People always responded better if they felt they were speaking to a kindred spirit.

"My daughter is the girl who tried to rescue us earlier," he explained. "She's a mutant, her powers can help you."

The mutant part Natasha had worked out for herself- there were not many girls who could fly, or survive being hit by an advanced energy weapon, much less both. However, it did help that she now had someone who could explain more fully, as well as acting as leverage should the girl prove reluctant to compromise.

"Your daughter was last seen getting hit by a weapon beyond military level," Natasha said coldly. "By being stupid enough to fly straight towards heavily armed mercenaries. I think I might prove more successful on my own."

She was taking a chance on alienating one of the few people competent and willing to help her, but if he was the kind of person to give up that easily there was no chance of her trusting him with her plans. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, but he swiftly controlled his anger.

"But you might not. My daughter has telepathy and superhuman strength in addition to her flight- you can't tell me that wouldn't level things out."

Natasha had to admit that it sounded promising, particularly the telepathic abilities. She had fought enough psychics before to know that muscles were meaningless compared to the mind that controlled them- but if the mutant girl had the muscle also, well Natasha wouldn't discard it out of hand. Of course, the hard part would be actually getting the girl out.

"What's your daughter's name?" Natasha asked. "If I'm going to contact her, I need to know."

"Monet," the man said. "Monet St. Croix."

Natasha memorised the name as she tried to work out her next step. The odds of Monet just incidentally happening to contact Natasha's mind were practically infinitesimal, but all of Natasha's training had been to keep psychics _out _of her mind, not invite them in. The basic technique was to imagine walls around your brain, and this would somehow create a kind of psychosomatic shield. Logically (as far as logic could ever be applied to mind-bending mutants) the next step would therefore be to reverse the process, and imagine the opposite of a wall. That of course raised the question of what the opposite of a wall actually was... a wide open space perhaps, or a field? So she had to think 'Monet' very... widely. She tried it, hoping she didn't look as ridiculous as she felt.

_The Freezer_

As far as Warren could tell, Monet was at the very least not getting any worse, though nor could he tell if she was getting any better either. She was twisting in her sleep and muttering about someone called James; for his part, Warren was torn between jealousy, and being annoyed at himself for being jealous of a man he never had and would almost certainly never meet. Suddenly, Monet bolted upright and looked around wildly. Warren was sure she was about to pummel him for what she no doubt considered molestation, but in fact she barely seemed to notice that he was even in the room, much less that he had quite possibly saved her life. On the other hand, even his limited knowledge of the girl suggested that should have come as no surprise. Gratitude was far from Monet's strongest suit.

"Wha-? I'm - I was - who said that?" she looked around, looking uncharacteristically dishevelled and confused. Warren for his part hadn't heard anyone say anything, but was smart enough not to mention that fact. Monet put a hand on her forehead and winced.

"Will you shut up?" she hissed. "My head is quite painful enough without your incomprehensible yelping."

"But I didn't even-" Warren protested.

"Not you, idiot," Monet snapped. "That ridiculous Russian spy. What? _You _tell him. _What_? But you can contact me perfectly well, so why not... Fine! ... Damn right I'm the telepath, and don't you forget it, Romanov."

Warren realised that he had been eavesdropping on a primarily telepathic conversation. Whether or not Monet realised she was relaying her half of the dialogue aloud was unclear, but it soon became a moot point when Monet managed to relay the conversation psychically.

*_... on my own,_* Romanov was saying. *_But you two are no good to me trapped in there.*_

_*Yes, because surrounded by armed guards is an excellent position to start a rescue attempt,_* Monet snapped back. Warren winced at the clear animosity in the two women's tones, but wisely kept his silence, or at least as best he could.

*_On our own, neither of us will be much good*_ he risked intervening. There was a definite sense of hostility but very little of it seemed to be aimed directly at him, and neither woman turned their scathing comments on him, so he assumed he would survive saying more. *_We'll have to work together to achieve anything._* It was not exactly Scott Summers-level inspirational pep-talk, but it did get both of the women to stop sniping and pay attention. *_And we'll need a plan._*

_*I have a knife and a gun,_* Romanov explained. *_I can handle a few guards, but only if I can slip away without them noticing._*

*_A distraction,_* Warren said, rather unnecessarily. He hadn't in fact intended either of them to hear it at all, merely run the possibilities through his mind, but he was too new to telepathic conversations to understand the finer nuances. Monet was the first to respond.

*_A distraction? Why doesn't Romanov just lean slightly forward? With that ridiculous dress on the guards would soon-_*

*_Monet! That is not helping!_* Warren said sharply. Monet's constant superiority was initially intimidating, but also grating and the latter was swiftly replacing the former. He sensed Monet's surprise that anyone would dare take that tone with her, but she soon regained her former hauteur.

*_Yes, and _this _is not caring._* She folded her arms and turned aside slightly, but her petulance was obvious even without the physical gestures.

*I _don't care either,_* Warren snapped. *_I don't care what the hell your problem is, or where your little insecurities came from, or why. But I do care about getting out of here and rescuing my father, and no spoilt arrogant little princess is going to stop me, got that?*_

Now he was more used to the psychic link, he could pick up sensations as well as words through the mental connection: astonishment and grudging respect from Monet, and well concealed amusement from the Russian spy. He wondered if his own surprised satisfaction was just as apparent, but discarded the notion as irrelevant. He had the metaphorical floor, now was his time to make use of it. *_We're stuck in what looks like a freezer room,_* he explained for the benefit of the Russian. *_There's at least one guard out there, presumably with one of those energy weapons. I don't know anything about numbers or positions of the others._*

_There's six in the main ballroom, all armed, and five others including the leader have apparently gone to examine the other hostages._* Natasha filled them in on the situation.*_ I don't know how many there are guarding the two of you._*

_*I hope there's a lot,_* Monet said darkly. *_I've got a lot of aggression to work off..._*

*_Your father said you have enhanced strength,_* Natasha ignored Monet's resentful posturing and kept her tone professional. *_Is it enough to break out of where they're keeping you?_*

*_It wouldn't even slow me down_,* Monet predicted confidently. *_But it pains me to admit that those guns of theirs are rather dangerous, even to me._*

_*Let me handle those_,* Warren interjected. He had been giving a lot of thought to the issue, as he lacked Monet's invulnerable skin and a direct hit from one of those guns could easily prove fatal. The two women's surprise was obvious, which Warren found rather irritating. He may not have a gamut of powers, or years of training, but that didn't mean he couldn't handle himself.

*_Your funeral,_* Monet said callously. *_But what do we do once we get out? I'm not going to break out just to be shot and imprisoned again._*

*_I'm going after the prisoners,_* Natasha explained. *_Come and find me as soon as you can._*

*That's _your master plan? Sneaking off while me and fly boy get used for target practice?* _Monet did not sound impressed. Warren wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect either. Monet's description of their role was dismissive but accurate, and it would only take one good or lucky shot and Warren would be seriously hurt at the very least.

*_Yes,_* Natasha said simply. *_Unless you can think of a better one..._*

Warren could not say that he could. The only other possibility was the reversal of roles, but Natasha would most likely prove an even more fleeting diversion than he would, and there was no realistic way for him and Monet to even reach the prisoners without being blown out of the air, much less set them free. He saw Monet scowl as she reached the same conclusion.

*_Fine,_* the telepath said sulkily. *_But you'd better fulfil your side of the deal Romanov, or no amount of goons with guns is going to stop me frying your brain in your skull_.*

*_You just worry about doing your part, St. Croix,_* Natasha replied calmly. *_I'm a professional._*

Monet was about to reply when Warren sensed the mental link terminate from Natasha's end.

"'I'm a professional'," Monet mocked the Russian bitterly. "I think I might just fry her mind anyway... and as for you-!" She whirled on Warren, clearly still annoyed by his audacity in addressing her so disrespectfully.

"Look, I'm sorry if I offended you, but you were out of line," he said firmly. "We've all got to work together if we're going to pull this off."

Monet's angry expression became one of irritation, then of resignation. In fact, Warren was surprised to see her lip twitching slightly, as though trying to suppress a smile.

"Well, you're brave, I'll give you that much," she said. "But try it again and I tear your wings off."

The threat was slightly undermined when her facial muscles failed her and the smile broke through anyway. Warren couldn't help smiling back. It seemed vaguely ridiculous to be arguing with each other with family members in peril and armed mercenaries with high tech weapons and itchy trigger fingers lurking outside.

"So how do you plan on handling those weapons then?" Monet demanded. Warren smiled again, this time with genuine satisfaction. He was rather pleased with his solution.

"Those weapons don't have much kinetic impact," he explained. "Otherwise they would just bounce off you. They worked by some sort of neural disruption, that's why it doesn't matter how tough your skin is, they affect nerves and muscles directly."

Monet had absolutely no idea how he had managed to work that out, but was far too proud to admit it. "I see."

Warren was not convinced that she did understand, but it was probably for the best that she accepted the explanation without asking too many questions. For one thing, the main reason he had worked out how the weapons worked was that the principle was very similar to a device once produced by his father's company- designed as part of the now-defunct Sentinel Project. That was not an association he would want to explain to a very powerful and very angry mutant.

"But that works in our favour," he went on. "It means we can deflect and block the attacks much more easily. In fact, with a reflective surface we could probably even redirect them wherever we wanted..." His voice trailed away as he looked around pointedly. Monet did likewise and soon grasped the point he was making. The freezer was full of chrome and polished tiles; in short, as many reflective surfaces as they could wish for. There were several metal trays lying around as well, easy to turn into impromptu shields if needed.

"Shut up in there!" a voice interrupted their discussion. It was the same guard that had threatened Warren before. "Or I'll shut you up permanent like."

"Now that was just rude," Warren said, shaking his head.

"I think we ought to teach him some manners," Monet agreed.

"Would you like to do the honours, Ms St. Croix?" Warren asked, stepping politely aside.

"With pleasure, Mr Worthington," she replied.

There was the sound of footsteps and an angry voice from outside.

"Listen, freaks, I ain't going to tell you agai- aarrghhh!"

The Reaver's threats were cut short as one hundred and twenty five pounds of angry Algerian mutant smashed into the door, tearing it out along with an impressive amount of wall. His unconscious body was ignored by Monet as she tossed aside the door.

"Shoddy masonry," she observed, brushing crumbled plaster off her shoulders. Warren alighted next to her and nudged the door experimentally with one foot.

"Good solid work on the lock though," he noted. Further witticisms were halted as an energy beam sizzled past his head. Another guard had appeared in the doorway and was aiming a second shot. Warren ducked but started edging backwards as the Reaver aimed again. "Time to make ourselves scarce, I think."

He and Monet both flew back into the freezer room. The Reaver sidled closer, gun raised defensively. He lifted his communicator to his mouth and started whispering urgently.

"The mutants are out, repeat, the mutants are out! They smashed down the door, they took out Delandro as well." He flattened himself against what remained of the wall.

"Give us a sit-rep," a voice ordered down the line.

"They retreated back into the, uh, cell," the Reaver whispered. "They're talking about something, I can't quite see what they're-" He risked peering around the corner, but all he received for his troubles was a metal plate hurled like a Frisbee, catching him between the eyes and skimming merrily away.

"Foley! Foley! Do you copy? Foley!" the communicator squawked. "Okay, you three go check it out. Weapons on full power, and will someone please tell me where the hell the off switch is on this thing?"

The signal died. Monet and Warren looked at each other.

"Three? I don't know whether to be amused or offended," Monet said. "You just let me handle these, no need for us both to waste our time."

"Are you sure you can handle them on your own?" Warren asked. Monet gave him a look scornful look.

"Oh please. They won't even slow me down. If you really have to help, just stand there looking menacing."

"Menacing?" Warren asked, but Monet had vanished from sight. He shrugged and took a boxing pose, wings furled ominously. Three Reavers appeared in the ravaged hole in the wall and brought their weapons to bear on Warren, who poised himself to spring into action.

"Alright, take him!" The central Reaver barked, but before fingers tightened on triggers, a row of frozen food toppled towards them, spilling tins and platters across the room.

"What the fu-" A dark shape rammed a fist into the Reaver's stomach mid-curse, propelling him across the room. The quicker of the two remaining mercenaries snapped off a shot, but Monet was already gone. She appeared behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, but as he brought his gun to his shoulder she wrenched it from his grasp and slammed the butt into his forehead. He collapsed with a groan and Monet threw the gun at the last Reaver, who ducked. He straightened up only to find Monet standing right in front of him. One hand yanked his gun from his hands and threw it into one corner, while the other grabbed his collar and lifted him into the air.

"You tell your boss I'm not done with him," Monet growled at the luckless Reaver. "And he'd better bring his A-game and not send punks like you. Understand?"

The Reaver noticed and Monet tossed him casually aside. He soared out of sight, but Warren heard a nasty crunch as the Reaver slammed into a wall. Despite the fact the man had been perfectly willing to gun him down where he stood, Warren could not help wincing at the sound.

"Well, that was an amusing diversion," Monet said. "Hopefully that Russian bimbo will have had the sense to sneak away."

Bimbo was not the word Warren had associated with Natasha, but he agreed with the sentiment. Monet seemed to be enjoying herself beating up armed thugs, but Warren was more inclined to talk someone out of fighting rather than beating them to a pulp, and was much more sanguine about their prospects of surviving the attack Monet had just called down on them. The two mutant's little rebellion may have proved momentarily distracting, but he doubted it would last long. Natasha would have to act soon if she was not to be too late.

_The Ballroom_

Natasha had heard the loud crashes and the sound of energy weapons discharging emanating from the mutants' former prison, and could not resist a slight smirk. She had asked for a distraction and that was certainly what she was getting; the Reaver who had taken charge in Pierce's absence was looking distinctly worried and ordered almost all of his remaining followers to deal with the pair, leaving just one Reaver other than himself to watch over the hostages, some of whom were visibly cheered at the prospect of resistance. Natasha had not dared to hope that so many Reavers would be dispatched to deal with a simple distraction, though of course the Reavers had no way of knowing that. As the last of the Reavers vanished from sight, it was time to make her own move. She started walking towards the exit taken by Pierce earlier, apparently oblivious of the threat of the two guns still present.

"Get back over there!" One of the Reavers said angrily. She ignored him and kept walking, and he ran to place himself between her and the door. Instead of backing down, she simply smirked. In his confusion at the illogical reaction, the Reaver was vulnerable for a split second- but that was all Natasha needed. She jabbed the knife at his throat, puncturing his windpipe. The Reaver dropped his gun and staggered backwards, rasping and choking as his lungs found themselves bereft of oxygen. Natasha grabbed him and wrapped one arm around his neck, turning him into a living shield, too weak to resist. She felt her enhanced physiology speed up, everyone else in the room seeming to move laughably slowly.

"Let him go! Now!" The sole remaining Reaver bellowed. Natasha edged backwards, pulling the dying Reaver with her, using his body to mask her movements as she retrieved her hidden gun. She slashed the knife across her shield's throat, blood spurting volcanically as he toppled forwards. Even before the body hit the ground, her gun barked twice and the last Reaver fell backwards, one bullet lodged in his chest, another between his eyes. The whole attack could not have taken more than a few seconds, and both bodies had hit the floor before the first screams started to echo around the room.

"Shut up!" Cartier snapped. Natasha nodded her thanks, glad that at least one of the others had the sense to keep his mouth shut and his brain in gear. Of course, Cartier had an unfair advantage in prior knowledge of Natasha's capabilities. The blonde who had been screaming was so surprised at his brusque tone and apparent unconcern that she complied, although her simmering resentment was obvious. Natasha smiled her thanks to the Algerian.

"I'm going after the other Reavers," she announced to the hall at large. "If you want to help me, the best thing you can do is just stay where you are until we know what we're dealing with."

"The goddamn door is locked!" A beefy man in a tuxedo grunted from the back of the room, kicking the unresponsive wood in anger. Natasha was not surprised; the Reavers knew what they were doing, at least when genetically modified Russian super-spies were not part of the equation, and were far too smart not to leave a door open and unlocked.

"What about my daughter and the Worthington boy?" Cartier asked.

"They can look out for themselves, more than Stark and the others anyway," Natasha said coldly. "They're not my concern. If you can find a way to help them without getting yourself killed, be my guest."

Cartier's attempt to hide his chagrin would have fooled anyone without Natasha's skills and experience, but she remained unconcerned. Cartier was clearly smart enough to realise anyone who could take down armed and armoured mercenaries was more than capable of dealing with a truculent nominal ally. He backed down immediately, but his eyes were dark and his expression grim.

"Don't move from this room. Don't try and escape. Don't follow me. Don't try to help me," Natasha said firmly. "If the other Reavers realise something is wrong, then things really _will _go wrong... for all of you."

Without another word, she turned and stalked out of the room, gun in one hand and knife in the other.


End file.
